


crawl home to her

by BerryliciousCheerio



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Vampires, yep its the vamp au that one (1) person asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8624176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerryliciousCheerio/pseuds/BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: Your fault, some ancient voice whispered.  Atone.or: the vampire au we all needed





	

**Author's Note:**

> "(bursts into ur askbox) hear me out here okay 51, 52, and 124 rilaya i'm imagining a vampire au where riley is in way over her head and maya just wants to Rest give her a Breather some Slack"
> 
> here ya go pal, it's 12k+ and im sobbing
> 
> disclaimed

 

 

 

It’s been years—decades, maybe. 

A century?  Who’s to say. 

Long enough that the New York they grew up in is long forgotten, long enough that their families are dust, dead, gone.  Long enough that Maya sometimes forgets what Riley’s laugh sounds like.  Long enough that Riley’s taken to leaving her ring on her bedside table.  Long enough that the only people that remember them are each other. 

They don’t talk.

 

  **...**

 

Maya’s not expecting to see her here.  In fact, she’d be hard pressed to say she ever expected to see Riley Matthews within a thirty block radius of a place like this, all damp musk, all warm blood, living flesh, all dank and dark and hole in the wall.  Maya’s three drinks deep when she looks up and sees her walk in, slipping in quietly and hugging the wall all the way to the bar.  Her breath leaves her—wait, no.  There’s no breath to lose, but Maya’s all the more conscious of that fact when what little light there is catches on the planes of Riley’s face, making her look ethereal, holy.  Entirely out of place.

Sipping from her cup, the stench of iron suffocating, Maya leans back against the wall, falls deeper into the shadows as Riley tries to catch the attention of the bartender.  For one terrible, wonderful moment, Maya remembers a time when it was just them. 

And then Riley turns.  Catches her eye.  Maya stiffens and looks down, studies her nails, her phone, goes through about five years’ worth of emails, thumbs flying across the screen.  When she looks up again, Riley’s disappeared.

All at once, she’s next to her.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Riley says in a rush, no hello, no awkward one liner. 

Heart pounding—or the closest approximation to it that Maya’s cold, dead heart can manage, she realizes that Riley’s fangs are out, unsheathed.  Cold washes over her, worry making her hands shake a little.  Maya tamps it down, locks it away in the dungeon of sadness.  “Hello to you too,” she spits, downing her drink and signaling for another, pulling the bottle of absinthe out of Wednesday’s hand when she goes to pour out the shot that Maya orders with each new blood.  She’ll need the whole thing, she thinks.

Riley scoffs.  “ _Look_ ,” she starts, so much more direct now that she’s dead, now that it’s Maya’s fault.  “I didn’t spend the last month hitting up every seedy vamp bar in Manhattan just for you to drink yourself silly on me.”  She leans over Maya—god, she wears the same perfume—and yanks the bottle away from her.  “I need your help.”

“Bullshit,” Maya snorts.  “You made it pretty clear you want nothing to do with me.”

“I—,” Riley huffs.  Stops.  She glares at Maya as she opens the absinthe and takes a long swig.  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Riley slams the bottle back onto the bar and says, “You and I have a fundamental difference in philosophy.”  Maya rolls her eyes.  You could call it that.  “ _But_ ,” Riley growls.  “You once said you would do anything for me.  And you’re the only one that can help me with this.”

Something about Riley softens—Maya feels like it’s a different century, feels like she’s looking back through time at who Riley used to be.  Her words cut deep, leave Maya open and bleeding and keening, reminds her of a time when she would have taken a bullet or a stake or the sun’s glory for her girl.  Reminds her that that time was not so distant.

“What do you want?” Maya sighs, knowing she’s sunk, feeling the weight of the ring against her chest, dangling from the chain around her neck.  What a noose to wear.

“I want to die.”

Maya’s gaze had strayed to the other end of the bar, past Riley, but she whips back now, mouth falling open and eyes wide, ears disbelieving.  “Riley,” she breathes, unable to stop herself when she reaches for Riley’s hand.

And finding nothing.  Riley pulls away before she can take her hand, her expression carefully blank.  “Not like that,” she assures evenly.  “But eventually.  I want to be human.” 

Maya’s rolling her eyes before she can stop herself.  “So, what?  You thought I’d change?  Soften up over a few decades?  I—,” Maya breaks off because they’ve fought this fight more time than she can count; breaks off because she remembers Riley screaming _I didn’t choose this_ at her, over and over again, as if Maya did. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” Riley interjects.  “That it’s not possible, that we were turned by an Old One, yada yada.  But there’s a way and it’s happening next Friday, on the blood moon.  But I need a tether to my past and—,” her voice cracks.  “And you’re all I have left.”

She was sunk before—Maya knows that, at the least.  She was completely sunk already, but this little—this broken declaration, with Riley staring at her brazenly, stubbornly, daring her to challenge her—she’s in it.

“Maya,” Riley says quietly.  “We’re parasites.  Don’t you know how wrong that is?" 

Like she said.  Philosophical differences.  Riley may think that they’re parasites, but Maya’s learned to live with it.  Love it.  Never feel more alive.

But Riley’s still looking at her like that, eyes wide and practically begging. 

“Fine,” Maya grumbles, grabbing the bottle of absinthe back.  “But I’m bringing this.”

 

 **...**  

 

Riley refuses to give her all the details, but Maya notices the burns around her neck, on her hands—she stinks of silver and citrus and rose and, she’s sure, has a grouping of welts across her chest in the shape of the cross from the unholy burn of holy water.  She remembers this from when things were still some facsimile of okay.

They fall into step under the yellow of the streetlight and Maya startles at how easy this is, how quickly her body adjusts, recalibrates when near true north.  She puts some space between them, leaving space for the years they’ve been apart.  It’s harder than she’d thought.

Riley leads them down a dark, narrow alley somewhere around Hell’s Kitchen, once more devolved into the seedy seething mess that Maya loves.  There’s one door down this alley, black and peeling paint and carved with runes Maya doesn’t recognize.

She recognizes the burn when she reaches for the handle.  “Seriously?” she scoffs, turning in time to see Riley pulling something out of the pocket of her coat. 

“Put this on,” Riley instructs, handing the crucifix to Maya.  “It’s birch, but it does the trick.”

“Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish,” Maya says, staring at the necklace in Riley’s outstretched hands.  “I’d die before putting myself through that.”

Riley snorts.  “You’re already dead.  Put you’ll turn to ash if you try and cross the threshold without this and I need you in one piece, okay?”  She holds the crucifix out to Maya once more, staring at her with wide, dark eyes until Maya heaves a sigh and takes it.

When she looks up after slipping it over her head, Riley’s giving her this inscrutable look, her face mostly shadow and it’s the least human she’s ever looked, Maya thinks, even right after they turned, right when bloodlust clouded Riley’s eyes and turned her into some sick version of avenging angel.

“What?" 

“Nothing.  Just—it’s been a while.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Maya choked up on some burning emotion, or maybe it’s the crucifix at the base of her throat.  Whatever the case, Riley clears her throat and, after an awkward pause, says, “Right.  So we should—.”

“Yeah, of course—.”

“…After you, then,” Riley murmurs, reaching around Maya and holding the door for her. 

When she steps through, all she can smell is the cloying scent of roses and, under it, the stench of dead blood.  The hairs on the back of Maya’s stand up, but then Riley’s behind her, stepping in front of her and reaching back and it’s instinct, pure and simple, that has Maya reaching forward and taking her hand.

It’s a bar—or, it used to be, Maya thinks, judging by the dark wood paneling and occasional crunch of glass under her boot.  Riley pulls her to the very back and through another door, into a gambling room filled with cackling faes—through another door, into an opium den with a mix of werewolves and desperate humans, another door, a brothel and succubi reaching for them.  Maya’s heard about places like these but even she, dark mistress of the night or whatever, has never gone near a wormhole.  Honestly, she’s surprised Riley wasn’t laughed out of the place.

That said, Maya realizes, as she finds herself staring at Riley, drinking her in, that she isn’t the same girl that walked out on her.  That her hair is darker and her eyeliner thicker.  That her clothes are muted, dark colors—chic and streamlined, lacking the glitter, the pastel, the flounce.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been laughed out; it makes Maya miss her more. 

They go through another door, a deep purple one, velvet Maya thinks, and then there’s a crone.  She’s old, as most crones are, and she’s gazing into a cauldron—how clichéd?—long silver hair plaited in intricate designs.  Her hands are wrinkled, fingers crooked and laden with iron and silver and jewels; a blood ruby winks in the candle light.

That’s when Maya remembers where she’s seen her before.

“Fuck,” she hisses, shrinking back.  Riley drops back with her, off balance, and, groping for the handle of the door, Maya whispers, “Riles, she’s—.”  The nickname slips off her tongue in an instant, but her words bite off in a strangled gasp when Riley rips her hand away.

When she turns to face her, there is no shock, no fear—only steady determination.  Riley’s voice doesn’t waver when she tells her, “I know who she is, Maya.  She killed me, and now she’s going to bring me back.”

 

  **...**

 

_June 17 th, 2020_

Here’s how it happened: Riley went first. 

Maya was driving.  The guilt is what really keeps her up at night, the scene playing behind her eyelids over and over again.  How she had one hand on the wheel, fingers flexing against the leather; how her other hand sat on the center console, clasped in Riley’s.  How the headlights gave Riley a halo.

Maya woke up on the pavement, half her face raw from skidding across the road.  There was glass under her, around her.  Riley, rolled on her side a foot away, her halo her bloody hair.  Maya’s never felt so sick.

Dragging herself up onto her elbows, Maya crawled, inch by wretched inch.  She wasn’t crying when she made it to Riley, but she was when she rolled her onto her back, pulled her into her lap.

Riley wasn’t dead yet—dying, definitely, but not gone.  Her eyes fluttered, gaze cloudy once she finally held them open for longer than a breath.  Maya smoothed her hair back, wiped at the line of blood leading from her mouth.  “Maya—,” she croaked, sucking in a shaky breath. 

“No, Riley,” Maya sobbed.  “Honey, you need to rest.”  Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

“Peaches, I—.”  Riley broke off into a coughing fit, her whole body shuddering, eyes slamming shut in pain.  Her lips were red when it ended.

Maya drew another breath, the pain in her chest worsening.  At least she’d be going too.  At least Riley wouldn’t be alone for long.  Riley stilled, then, though she still drew shallow breaths rhythmically. 

There wasn’t much else to do.  The night was cold and it was all too easy for Maya to ease herself down, to pull Riley to her chest and close her eyes. 

It almost didn’t hurt.

 

  **...**

 

The crone—the Old One beckons them forward, grinning, toothless save for her fangs.  “Welcome child,” she purrs, tapping her long red nails against the iron of the cauldron.  “I see you brought your _friend_.” 

Maya flinches at the word.  The very least this hag could do is give her the correct title—even though Maya’s not sure what that would be, at this point. 

“You said I needed a tether,” Riley responds.  “She’s it.”

The Old One’s gaze is critical when she swings it to Maya, no discernible color to her eyes.  “She’s the key to your humanity?  She’s a bit…rough.”

In truth, Maya sometimes forgets she doesn’t have to breathe—a holdover from a past life.  More times than not, she finds herself taking unnecessary breaths and there are times, like now, when she finds herself holding it.  Because it’s true, isn’t it?  She was never the soft one, the sweet one—that was always Riley’s shtick.  Maya was the one that _handled_ , the one that adapted, the monster in the night. 

But she’s still invested in what Riley has to say.  And she still lets out the breath she doesn’t need when Riley nods, jaw set.  “She’s _it_ ,” she repeats, steel in her voice.  “Just get on with it.”

The Old One stares at Maya for what seems like hours, her eyes boring holes into Maya’s skull.  She crooks one bent finger, beckoning her forward and, like a fish reeled in, Maya walks.  Steps out from behind Riley and take slow, staggering steps, wading through waist high water it seems.

She comes to a halt when she’s close enough to smell the sour of the Old One’s breath.  To see the blood splatter across her face, the red tinge to her fangs when she smiles a gaping grin.  “I remember you,” the hag cackles.  “ _Don’t touch her!”_ she pantomimes, mimicking Maya’s voice perfectly, sharp and desperate.  “ _Leave her alone!  Take me!_ ” 

Maya doesn’t look back when Riley gasps. 

“I thought I’d be doing a favor by taking you together.  A small kindness.  And then this one—,” she gestures behind Maya, at Riley, “this one leaves.  Throws it all away.  My child,” she breathes, leaning in close.  “Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you _furious_.”  She grabs Maya’s chin and forces her to look her in the eyes.  “After everything you did?  After everything you sacrificed?" 

Sacrifices that Maya bore quietly for a reason.  She cuts the crone off before she can say anything else, promising, “I made my choice.”

“Ugh,” the Old One spits.  “You’re still young enough to be passionate.”  She throws Maya to the side, sweeping forward and opening one wrinkled hand in front of Riley, waiting.  “I’ll take my payment.”

Maya watches in disbelief as Riley fishes out a plastic baggie full of dirt from her coat and drops it into the Old One’s hand.  “Dirt from a hanged witch’s grave,” Riley offers, as much an explanation for Maya as it is an assurance for the crone.

“Wonderful,” the Old One says, sweeping away, back towards her table of horror.  “Let’s begin.” 

It’s silent, then—not that Maya doesn’t try to speak.  _God_ , she tries to scream, but it’s like there’s a blanket over the room and, yeah, okay, she remembers this from the turn, but it doesn’t make it any less disorienting.  She can see the Old One’s mouth moving, can see Riley’s moving in time, and she’s not sure whether she should be proud or afraid of how adept Riley seems to be at this.  

She settles somewhere in between.

 

  **...**

 

Maya stalks ahead when they resurface, shrugging Riley’s hand off her shoulder.  “Maya,” Riley sighs from behind her, and it feels like they’re young again, feels like a regular fight.

It feels like she remembers it, so Maya whips around and seethes, “What the _hell_ was that?” 

Holding up her hands in surrender, Riley says, “I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew about her.”

“Because she _literally_ killed you!”  It’s only when Riley grabs her hands that Maya realizes she’s shaking, and then she’s pulling away, doubling over and heaving into the alley.  After a moment’s hesitation, Riley’s hand is on her back, the other taking over for Maya and holding back her hair.  All Maya can smell is smoke, burning rubber.  “Fuck,” she mumbles when she’s emptied her stomach.  “ _Fuck_.”

“It’s not ideal, Maya, I know,” Riley murmurs, rubbing her back.  “But I can’t keep living like this and she’s my only chance.”

“Riley, she’s a liar!” Maya shouts as she pulls away, backs up until her back hits brick.  “She feeds off of shit like this, okay?  Whatever she said she’ll do, it’s just to get you agreeable to whatever fucked up shit she’s planning next, I swear to god.”

“I—I’m willing to take that chance.” 

“Good for you.  I’m not giving her another swing at me.”

And then they’re staring at each other, excruciatingly aware of the years between them.  The city’s entered its pre-dawn lull; the partiers have passed out and the early birds aren’t yet risen and, for a moment, it feels like it’s just this, just them, just two girls fighting in the street.  No love lost, no tragedy, no betrayal. 

Maya straightens, pulls herself together first.  “Well,” she huffs, discreetly swiping a hand under her eyes and catching the tears before they can fall and, in the same move, yanking off the crucifix and tossing it at Riley’s feet.  “If that’s it, I have some terror to inflict.”  She turns on her heel, marching towards the nearest safe house because she hasn’t re-upped on the only thing keeping her from ash in the sunlight. 

And then—“Maya,” Riley whispers, voice breaking on the second syllable.

“ _Fuck_.”

 

**...**

 

“Okay, run me through this again,” Maya grumbles, pulling her hair up and padding into her living room.  They’re back at her place because a) the sun came up and b) as Maya found out, Riley sold her apartment because she moved to London and, surprise, the only reason she’s back is for this ritual.  So they’re here.  In Maya’s bachelor pad.  “If I’m going to be beholden to that witch, I want to be clear on what I’m getting into.”

Riley, from her spot on the floor surrounded by falling apart books, looks up and explains.  “So basically it starts with five items—rowan ash, blood of a liar, pain of the subject—.”

“Hence the self-inflicted torture,” Maya adds when she joins Riley on the floor. 

“Hence the self-inflicted torture,” Riley confirms, tugging the collar of her shirt up to cover the newly applied holy water cross burning her chest.  “So that, monkshood, and a tether.  Which is you.  All that, some ritualistic prep work, some chanting under the blood moon and boom!  Human Riley Matthews.”

Maya squints at Riley—she keeps tucking and untucking her hair from behind her ear which is, of course, her biggest goddamn tell.  “What are you leaving out?” Maya presses, because there’s always something more. 

“Nothing.”

Maya stares at Riley, unblinking.  Another perk of being undead—the unnerving ability to intimidate effectively.  It used to irritate Riley to no end, how quickly Maya adapted and learned to use her abilities to her benefit.  How she always got out whatever secret she was hiding eventually.  Now, though—now, Riley stares back.  “That’s everything,” Riley says firmly, her attempt at closing the matter.

“I don’t have to help you, you know,” Maya snaps. 

Slamming the nearest book closed, Riley gives Maya a withering look.  “You’re going to though, aren’t you?”  Less question, more challenge.  Just asking for Maya to turn her away. 

Glaring from across the room, Maya gets to her feet and makes her way to the kitchen, slamming mugs down onto the counter.  “Do you still drink Earl Grey?” she asks flatly. 

“Honey and cream.”

 

 **...**  

 

Maya’s not entirely sure why she agreed to let Riley crash at her place—nostalgia, maybe, or some ingrained sense of loyalty coming to bite her in the ass—but they stay out of each other’s way for most of the night.  Riley eventually moves her books and her research and her self-flagellation to Maya’s spare room, usually reserved for whatever poor newbie that ended up stuck at Maya’s during the day, too young to know not to get caught without the draught.  But Riley holes up, keeping out of Maya’s way throughout the daylight hours and allowing her to carry on as normal, almost as if her life hasn’t been entirely fucked in just the past twelve hours.

She pretends like it hasn’t and spends most of the day sleeping, waking up at her phone’s alarm just as the sun begins to set.  When she pads out of her room, bedhead and night breath and pajamas and all, Riley’s in the kitchen, cooking something that smells terribly familiar. 

For a minute, Maya just leans against the kitchen wall and watches the scene, trying hard not to cry at how right this feels.  How much she’s missed this.  Tries to remember that it was Riley that left.

“I know you’re up,” Riley greets softly, back still turned.  She stirs whatever’s in her pan and adds, “And I know you keep vamp hours, but I’ve been on human time for a while.  Hard habit to break." 

As Maya remembers it, Riley never got off of human time.  Instead of saying that, Maya pushes off the wall and walks over, peering around Riley’s shoulder and asking, “Is that your stir fry?”

“Mhm,” Riley hums.  “With one special ingredient.”  She nods to the bag of O- on the counter, drained already.

Maya nods, already turning to leave when Riley offers, “So I know you’re a dark mistress of the night or something—,” Maya can’t help but smirk at her wording, “—but I made enough for two and its fang friendly.  If you wanted to stay in.”

“I—ah,” Maya stammers.  _Technically_ she has plans and _technically_ this should be the biggest red flag that she’s even considering cancelling them, but that doesn’t stop her from saying, “Uh, yeah.  I didn’t have anything tonight anyway.”

 

 **...**  

 

Over dinner, Riley explains things a little more—their schedule, at least. 

“I’ve done most of the prep work,” Riley says around a mouthful of food.  “But I still haven’t been able to get a lot of the items for the actual ritual.  London is great, really, but the underground markets could use some work.”

Maya doesn’t say anything, just nods and takes another sip of her wine, trying very, very hard to not fall into the easy pattern of all this, of dinner and talking and being with Riley again.  Tries very, very hard to remember the hurt and the years she spent underwater, barely functioning. 

It’s not really working, but Maya still tries. 

In the silence that follows Riley’s explanation of where, exactly, one could purchase a murderer’s heart, Maya finishes off the wine.  When she comes back from the pantry with a new bottle, Riley’s cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher.  “One of your pieces sold at auction,” she tells Maya, following her back into the living room and taking the spot at the other end of the couch when Maya collapses onto it.  “An older one, I think.  You’d have died at how much it went for.”

“Probably not,” Maya throws back.  “I’ve got to pay for all of this somehow.”

They’re silent again—really, Maya’s not sure how to fill these lulls.  What do you say to the girl that broke your heart? 

She’s just about to reach for the TV remote when Riley observes, “You can’t get drunk off that.”  She gestures to the bottle of wine Maya’s white knuckling, her head tilting to the side in that way she does when she’s trying to put the last pieces of a puzzle together. 

“No I can’t,” Maya nods.  “But I don’t keep the fresh stuff on hand.”

By fresh stuff, of course, she means humans—the only real way she can get drunk is from a vein, but liquor still gives her a solid buzz and garners slightly less judgement from present company.

“You don’t have to derail your life just because I’m around.”

When she looks up, Riley’s giving her this terribly earnest look and Maya can’t stop the words that tumble out, that choke her up.  “You know I will,” she murmurs, eyes burning. 

“Maya—,” Riley starts, reaching out just for Maya to pull away.  She stands abruptly, using her free hand to wipe at her face, the other still wrapped tightly around the wine bottle. 

“I usually drink a bottle of this and paint until dawn, so I’ll just, ah—,” Maya gestures to the open door of her studio.  “Help yourself to whatever.”  She’s halfway across the room, the city lights dancing across the floor beneath her feet in broad strokes, when she hears the whisper of movement behind her. 

Riley’s hand is gentle on her shoulder, but it’s enough for Maya to freeze in her steps.  When she turns, Riley’s near tears, her bottom lip quivering and it’s enough to tear her apart, rip her to pieces.  She thinks that the stake would be less painful.

“Maya, I could’ve gone to anyone for help,” Riley tells her, voice thick. 

Choking out a laugh, Maya counters, “I thought I was your tether?”

“Anything can be a tether, Peaches.  I came back to see you.”

“Why?”  Maya might sound a little hysterical; she could blame the wine, but honestly?  This has been waiting to come out, seething and roiling beneath the surface for a century.  “You left me, Riley.  _You’re_ the one that left.”  When Riley doesn’t answer, just stares at her with dark, wet eyes and a wobbling chin, Maya says, “I’m going to paint and you’re obviously tired.  Just go to bed.”

She rips away from the taller girl, stalking towards the studio—god, why did she buy such a big fucking apartment?—and then, small and soft and broken, Riley whimpers, “I might die.”

And— _fuck_.

Maya freezes, standing stock still for a moment before exploding, whipping around and rushing over to Riley, who’s whole body is wracked with sobs, shoulders shaking as she gasps.  It’s easy to slip back into it, to brush Riley’s hair back and guide her to the couch and place light, shaky kisses all over her face.  Easy to soothe, “Hey, no, we’re going to figure this out, okay?  You’re not doing this alone, I’m here with you, we’re in this together.”  Easy to become a _we_ again.  Easy to pull Riley against her chest, let her collapse against her and murmur, “Honey, you’re going to be okay.  You’re not dying on my watch.” 

Easy to forget how that promise got them here.

When her sobs quiet, Riley doesn’t pull away and Maya doesn’t push her to.  She keeps her in the circle of her arms, the old protectiveness resurfacing without hesitation and leaving Maya angry, ready for a fight.  Ready to hurt whatever’s hurting her girl.  “Okay,” she whispers into Riley’s hair.  “Okay I need some details.”  When Riley stays silent, Maya adds, “Gotta know who to fight, yeah?”

Riley laughs into Maya’s shirt, a sad little laugh that twists Maya up inside.  “The Old One demands blood,” she tells her finally.  “The ritual ends with me being staked.”

“Riley, what the fu—.” 

“If it works, it’ll strip me of immortality.  If it doesn’t, I’m dead and Maya, I thought I could go through with this, I thought I would be okay, I thought—.” 

Maya pulls back enough to look at her, lets her go so that she can take Riley’s face in her hands.  “Listen to me,” she murmurs.  “This is important to you?”  When Riley nods, eyebrows drawn together, Maya continues, “Okay.  Then it’s going to work.  And if it doesn’t, I’ll bite you and we can start over.”

“You’ll be there?”

“Duh.  We were—before everything else, we’re best friends.  Of course I’ll be there.”

And _shit_ —Riley’s looking at her like she hung the moon and her voice shakes when she says, “We haven’t spoken in almost a hundred years,” almost like she expects that to make the years before null and void.  Almost like it nearly had. 

“Not to be _that_ vampire, but it’s been a hundred and four years,” Maya deadpans with a small smile, brushing her thumb across Riley’s cheek and catching an errant tear.

She should know better—she really, _really_ should.  But when Riley leans into her touch, and then just leans in, her eyes dropping to Maya lips, Maya doesn’t stop her.  Against what little better judgement she has, Maya leans in too.

Maybe it’s been the years they’ve been apart, but the cold of Riley’s lips startles her, and so does the sink of fangs against her bottom lip.  Maya jerks away, opening her eyes to see Riley frozen in front of her.  “Oh god,” she breathes, guilt coloring her words.  “Oh shit.  Maya, I didn’t mean to—.”

“It’s fine,” Maya assures her even as she tastes the dull burn of her own blood.  “But maybe _this_ ,” she says, gesturing between them, “isn’t a great idea.”

“No, I know,” Riley agrees, though she seems to deflate at the words.  “You’re right.”

Acting on impulse, Maya grabs her hand.  “We have a philosophical difference,” she says honestly, echoing Riley’s words to her.  “You want to be mortal and I—.”  She breaks off, eyes burning as she forces herself to look away from Riley, all earnest and sorry and _human_.  “I’ve adapted,” she finishes lamely, words hollow. 

It’s not that she doesn’t think about being human; not that she doesn’t dream about seeing her mom again or spending days at the beach, unencumbered by fragile glass vials of a lifeline, or that she spent far too much time picturing what her family with Riley would have looked like.  But Maya’s been a monster for so long, she’s not sure that she remembers how to be soft or vulnerable or human at all.

The way Riley’s looking at her makes Maya think that she knows all this—she’s always been the best at reading Maya like a book, always knew exactly what right thing to say or way to distract.  Maya can barely stand it now, can’t keep eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time.  “You’re going to lose your immortality,” she says finally, firmly.  She chooses her next words carefully, searching for the right ones to cut to sinew, to bone, even if it’s hers.  Maybe it’ll work better that way; maybe it’ll stick this time.  “And it’s—it isn’t fair to make me lose you a second time.”

Riley nods sharply and Maya watches, transfixed, as she puts every last wall back in place, puts a weak imitation of her once sunny grin on.  “No,” she nods again.  “It wouldn’t be fair to do that to you.”  And then, with a harsh laugh, she adds, “It’s funny how to night makes you stupid, huh?” 

Riley pulls her hand away and pushes off of the couch, the space between them gone cold once more, though it doesn’t seem as far of a distance as it was before.  Maya remembers a different couch, a different time—she’d gone after Riley then.  Stood and grabbed her hand again and told her that she felt the same.  Crossed the distance.  Been better.

When Riley leaves, saying softly, “I’m sorry about that, but I—I’m glad you’ll be with me,” and offering a quiet goodnight, Maya doesn’t follow her. 

 

  **...**

 

_June 17 th, 2020_

Something was hunched over Riley when Maya woke to empty arms, the acrid smell of burning rubber smothering most everything else.  It took a moment for her to realize what was happening, to register the wet sounds of fangs in flesh, of feeding, but all those trashy movies she and Riley would watch served her well. 

“Don’t touch her!” Maya shrieked, fighting to her feet and stumbling to where the vampire and Riley lay.  She collapsed a few steps away, crawling the rest of the distance, her knees and hands raw.  “Leave her alone!”  _Let her die in peace._   _Don’t make this worse than it is._

“Child,” the vampire turned, voice like old stones scraping against one another.  “She is already on her journey.”  When the vampire faced her, Maya did retch—the lower half of its face was red and wet with Riley’s blood, its terrible smile gaping and fangs stained.  “I am easing her path,” the vampire rasped.

“ _Please_ ,” Maya begged, tears hot down her face.  “Please, god, don’t do this to her.”  She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the vampire or God himself, capital G.  She wasn’t sure which would be more sympathetic.

The vampire reached out a gnarled hand, stroking Maya’s cheek; she didn’t have the strength to pull away.  Besides, she’d just managed to grab Riley’s cold hand, her thready, weak pulse the only comfort Maya could find.  “I demand blood,” the vampire told her, tilting its head to take her in.  “And I demand a turn.  Why should I not choose the dying girl?”  The vampire leaned in close to Maya, laying a hand on her chest, its breath sour when it said, “I see your heart, child, and I see hers.  Does she not deserve eternal life?" 

Maya could say nothing, could only sob in response.  _Your fault_ , some ancient voice whispered.  _Atone._

“Take me,” she croaked finally.  “She deserves to be happy.”

“Very well,” the vampire grinned.

 

  **...**

 

They cross paths at dawn and again at sunset, skirting around each other like they did in high school for an ungodly amount of time.  Looking back, Maya can’t believe how stupid she’d been then, how, for the sake of her pride, she avoided the person she loved most.  How they’d lost so much time because of it.  How they’re losing time now.

It carries on like this for days—Riley doesn’t invite Maya to eat with her and Maya doesn’t cancel her plans to go out, but when she comes home, there’s always a plate of some fang friendly meal in the fridge for her.  Maya doesn’t join Riley during her research or excursions for some ingredient or the other unless she’s specifically requested, but she leaves out a mug and fills the kettle before going to bed each morning. 

Ships in the night, Maya thinks one evening, when she’s passing Riley on the way out as Riley’s on her way to bed.  Maybe that’s how they were always meant to be—there’s not much evidence to the contrary, considering how right after they became anything more than platonic, they died and Maya got them turned into vampires.

She drowns thoughts like that with vigor, downing pint after pint and moving from neck to neck, wrist to wrist.

All at once, it’s Thursday morning. 

When Maya slips in, still half drunk, Riley’s on the floor, shirt unbuttoned as she carefully applies holy water to the cross already burned into her chest.  Maya stumbles to a halt, catching herself on the kitchen bar and feels heat rush to her face, though she knows she won’t be blushing visibly.

“Shit,” Riley hisses even as her hands remain steady.  “I’m sorry about this.  Forgot about the time.” 

“No, it’s, um—,” Maya stammers.  “It’s fine.”

Riley squints are her from across the room and Maya’s suddenly very aware that she’s still here, still staring.  “Are you drunk?” Riley asks, pursing her lips.  She finally finishes her ministrations, her skin raw and hissing. 

Instead of answering, Maya wonders aloud, “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“It’s holy water, of course it hurts.  How drunk are you?”

“Who’s asking?” Maya prods suspiciously.  “My newly reconciled best friend or the girl that waltzed in and co-opted my life so she could regain her mortality?” 

Buttoning her shirt, Riley says with an eye roll, “The second one.  It’s Thursday.  We have a day and a half.” 

“Oh.”  Maya stumbles over to the couch, falling onto it heavily.  “So Friday is tomorrow.”

Riley gives her an unreadable look, eyebrows drawn together.  “That’s sort of how the week works,” Riley tells her flatly as she stands carefully, moving stiffly—holy water’s a bitch, Maya knows.  She joins Maya on the couch, leaving just a little too much space between them for it to be anything but carefully calculated, but she faces her just the same.  “Are you okay?” Riley asks gently, her affect no longer flat, concern coloring her words and movements and it’s painfully obvious just how much she cares about Maya and it fucking _hurts_ to see.

“I—,” Maya starts, biting off her sentence before it can really begin.  Is she?  Because she thought she was—she really, honest to god, thought that she was fine with this.  Riley would become human again and they’d exchange Christmas cards for a few decades and Maya would watch her age, watch her fall in love with someone else and have a family that she knows— _god, she knows_ —that Riley has pined for the better part of two centuries for.  Watch her wrinkle, gray.  Bury her.  Mourn her.  The way it was always supposed to be.

But now it’s Thursday.  Tomorrow is Friday, the blood moon, the day of reckoning.  The end of all things, as far as Maya’s concerned, and, really, why shouldn’t she be concerned?  The girl she’s been in love with for the better part of two centuries is about to bargain with her life, about to offer herself up on a silver platter to a woman— _a monster_ —that ruined them, tore them apart, smashed them so that they would never quite fit the same again.

Suddenly, Maya doesn’t feel so fine with this.  Suddenly, she can feel that familiar emptiness again, the gaping wound in her side where Riley used to live, somewhere between her ribs, tucked away safely until she left.  It hasn’t felt quite so hollow the last week, the space slowly filling with soft _good mornings_ and even softer _good nights_ whispered across rooms, snaking through doorways and leaving quiet half smiles in their wake.  It feels hollow again, now that she’s facing losing Riley all over again, facing the awful, gut wrenching, heart breaking thought of having to watch her walk out the door again.

Maya doesn’t know how to put this in words—doesn’t know how to reconnect her mind with her mouth, how to make her tongue gold instead of lead.  That was always Riley’s thing; Maya was action, impulse. 

Really, there’s only one thing that she can do.

Rising up to her knees, Maya bends, curls around Riley, who’s looking up at her with those dark, unreadable eyes—there was once a time when she’d have been able to tell everything Riley was thinking with just one look.  Maya takes her face between her hands, gentle as she ever was, running her thumbs over Riley’s cheekbones, sharper than she remembers, but Riley’s just the same.  She traces down her jaw line, pausing at the place that she knows a dimple will appear when Riley smiles; down to her chin and then, finally, she cradles Riley’s face, tilting her head forward to rest her forehead against hers, noses bumping.  Maya’s thumb rests on the edge of Riley’s bottom lip, feeling her continuous, unnecessary breaths, and she sinks into the moment, the peace it provides, lets her eyes close.

When she opens them again, she doesn’t feel quite so lost when she finds Riley staring up at her, when she finds her readable for the first time in years.  Almost like she remembered their language, or like she never really forgot it in the first place; she just grew rusty with disuse.

But that’s not the important part—it’s what she reads in Riley’s face that’s the most pressing.  Maya reads _I’m sorry_ and _Forgive me, please_ and _I’ve missed you._ Most importantly, Maya reads _I love you_ , over and over again, matching the staccato of her breathing, their breathing.  Riley’s hands settle on Maya’s hips, almost like they never left.

“I was so stupid that night,” Maya whispers.  She doesn’t clarify which night she means—she’s not sure about it, to be quite honest.  That night when Riley kissed her and she let her down softly, but let her down just the same.  That night Riley walked out, never to be seen again.  That night when Maya was driving.  Maybe she means them all.

Riley lifts her chin, her lips ghosting over Maya’s.  “The night makes us stupid,” she responds, her voice low, quiet.  Like speaking to loud would break whatever spell they’re under, tangled up in each other on Maya’s couch.  Hesitation creeps back—Maya can tell from the way Riley’s shoulder tense ever so slightly, how her eyes dart away from Maya’s for a split second, as if she’s trying to find the right time to voice whatever she’s thinking.

“Tell me,” Maya requests.  Her voice cracks, honest and raw. 

Whatever Riley sees in her eyes when she looks back must seem earnest.  She answers, “I don’t want to do this life thing alone,” echoing Maya’s own words, words from a different girl in a different lifetime, but her words nonetheless.  “I don’t want to leave you.” 

Maybe this is what Maya’s been waiting to hear—this admission that Riley wants to stay as much as Maya wants her to.  As much as Maya’s always wanted her to.  It’d explain why Maya stayed—stayed beside her even as she lashed out after the turn, stayed behind in New York even when she could’ve gone anywhere, been anyone.  Always waiting for these words, this girl.

It’s been worth it, she thinks.

“You won’t have to,” Maya promises before she can think about it; she was always impulse.  Always with words out of her mouth before she means to, always with promises she didn’t know she wanted to make.

But then Riley’s smiling—grinning, a true Riley grin, and Maya thinks that it’s almost like seeing the sun again.  She can almost feel the warmth she knows doesn’t exist when she ducks her head just enough to ease her lips against Riley’s, familiar and new all at once. 

The world falls away.  The sun is shining and Maya can do nothing but feel it.

 

  **...**

 

Later, Riley tells her the rest. 

“I bought enough for two,” she admits sheepishly as she unpacks her items, cheeks the closest they can come to pink.  “I was—I mean, I hoped.”  She leaves it at that, ending her thought abruptly and turning her attention back to her task.

Maya doesn’t push the subject, doesn’t pick a fight.  Doesn’t feel the need to.  She sidles up next to Riley and slips her hand into Riley’s, squeezing it reassuringly.  “Farkle would be so jealous—my girl’s a genius,” Maya says unthinkingly.  The weight of what she’s said hits her as it hits Riley, the pair of them freezing.  They haven’t spoken about their past in years, Riley especially.  They buried Auggie, the last of them, in 2103 and Riley refused to look back.

But there may be some merit to memories.  Like the soft look that Riley gives her now, melting and all encompassing.  Like the not unpleasant warmth that blooms in Maya’s chest at the thought of their friends, the thought of one day seeing them again.

She squeezes Riley’s hand once more, pulling them out of their own introspections, and Riley goes on to explain the rest.  “The pain part is flexible.  It can be physical, but we probably don’t have enough time for you.  Or—,” she breaks off.

“Or?”

“It can be emotional pain.  I—ah.  I’m sure—it should work,” Riley mumbles, eyes downcast as she tries to slip her hand out of Maya’s.

Maya holds on tighter.  “It’ll work,” she says fiercely, already so attached to this plan, this dream.  “We’re in this together.”

Riley gives her a tremulous smile; it doesn’t reach her eyes, not even close, and Maya’s all out of words, doesn’t know how to make this better, so she pushes up on her toes and kisses Riley fast and hard, teeth hitting teeth for a second before they hit their rhythm—they’ve still got some recalibrating to do, Maya thinks.  But they’re getting there.

When she pulls away, she thinks that Riley looks a little less unsure, at the very least.  It sets Maya at ease too, at least a little; it’s enough for her flip open the ancient tome that takes up at least a quarter of the bed in the guest room, some dusty thing Riley bought—or potentially stole, judging by Riley’s shifty look when Maya asked about it—from the Old One of Scotland.  Most of the writing is in runes, but there’s a little in Old English and Maya can riddle most of that out for herself; it’s mostly about which sheep to use in the event of blood sacrifice for rain.  The other stuff, the _important_ stuff—well. 

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”  Maya flicks through the pages, scanning for something she recognizes and coming up empty.  “Enlighten me, oh wise one,” she implores dramatically, grinning at the flush that creeps up Riley’s neck.   She resists the urge to follow the color with her lips, to kiss every heated inch of skin she can, make up for lost time.  This is serious, what they’re going to do.  An honest-to-god shit show, and to walk in blind is a mistake that Maya isn’t willing to make.

Riley must follow along a similar train of thought because she drags her eyes away from Maya to the book.  She flips through some more pages, landing somewhere near the end of the volume, and says, “This is the ritual,” pointing to one set of runes, fading against the yellowed pages, the rust colored stains that still smell of blood.  “The first part is all about the ingredients and the meaning behind them, which—?”  She breaks off, leaving her question unspoken and hanging in the air between them.

“Meh,” Maya makes a face.  “Would me knowing about it make our survival any more likely?”  When Riley shakes her head, she adds, “Then it’s useless to me.”

“Okay,” Riley laughs, dropping to sit on the floor and pulling the book off the bed and into her lap, Maya following soon after.  “So this part,” she points, “says that the ritual can only happen on a blood moon.  _Blood calls to blood.  The moon will return what She has taken_.  That part’s an allusion to our hearts not pumping.”  Riley scans the page for a moment before landing on the next section.  “So once the blood moon is at its apex, that’s when the Old One can begin.”

When Maya flinches at the mention of the crone, Riley frowns, pauses.  In lieu of explaining—she’s explained as much as she wants Riley to know, already—Maya pushes gently on Riley’s shoulder, her request silent.  Riley gets the message, thank god, and rearranges herself, book on the floor, so that Maya can lean against her, press up against her side, half in her lap.

“Better?” Riley checks, eyes soft.

“Much.”  Maya leans up to press a kiss to Riley’s cheek before she says, “Let’s get on with it.” 

Riley watches her for a moment longer—Maya refuses to look at her again, so she relies on vamp sense to tell her this fact.  Eventually, Riley continues.

“We’ll have to drink the blood, which, you know, is fine, but we eat the monkshood right after, which will make us throw up.  It’s the part where we symbolically reject vampirism,” Riley explains, missing the way Maya pales.  “From there, we get anointed with the rowan ash mixed with holy water and rose oil.  It adds to the pain factor, too,” she adds as an afterthought.

“So, tell me if I’ve got this wrong—we drink ancient as shit blood, puke it up, and then get tortured?” 

“Essentially.”

“Cool,” Maya huffs.  “Just checking, I guess.” 

Riley’s arms around her tightens just slightly, anchoring her.  “After the anointment,” Riley continues, “is when the Old One will return us to the moon and sun.  She’ll renounce us as her children of blood and then she’ll stake us.”  Her voice is flat, which is—its not reassuring in a great way, but Maya’s glad that she’s not the only one completely hating the idea.  “And then if that works, we’ll wake up at sunrise, completely human and probably more than a little sore.”

Maya scowls at the book, directing all her blame, her anger onto it as a proxy for the Old One.  She doesn’t like the idea of getting staked by that thing, of Riley dying at her hands once more, but what are the alternatives?  They stake themselves and risk getting it wrong?  Angling the point just so that the end would come slowly, painfully?  Or, Maya supposes, they could stake each other.

Even the thought of it—of Maya driving a stake through Riley’s heart, watching her bleed, die, again, is enough to nearly make Maya sick.  She must visibly pale, because then Riley’s reaching over to close the book, bringing Maya to lean with her, arm still secure around her.

“Hey,” Riley whispers when she turns back to Maya, having shoved the book unceremoniously under the bed.  “I—this is really shitty, I know.  And I understand if you don’t want to go through with it.”

The sick thing is that Maya knows Riley means it.  One hundred million percent means it, earnest and honest as she always was.  And if she didn’t trust her words, the love shining through in Riley’s eyes when Maya glances up drives it home. 

Maya hesitates for a moment and hates herself for it.  Because she likes her life?  It’s not ideal, but Maya never liked the idea of growing old and this life isn’t the worst way to avoid what had once been inevitable, even as traumatizing as her induction was.  Her morality has always been gray, but she’s never fallen into the pitfalls of vampirism, has always frequented above-board bloodhouses where humans sign consent forms and vamps have time limits to avoid draining.  She’s done her best. 

But she loves Riley.  Always has, always will; it was never up for debate, really.  And she had always justified the horror of growing old with the idea of growing old with Riley, even before she had any idea of the depth of how she felt for Riley, even before she knew how Riley felt, even before they ever even _attempted_ to verbalize their feelings.

And this?  The way Riley’s looking at her, like she hung the moon and stars, like she reigned in the sun just for her—and Maya knows that she would, if Riley asked.  She knows she would do anything that Riley asked. 

Which might be why this is so hard.  Because Riley’s not asking; Riley never asked for Maya to do this, to give up immortality for her.  If anything, Maya thinks, remembering the way Riley’s voice broke just a few hours ago, how she could see the resolve wavering in Riley’s eyes—if anything, Riley was asking if Maya wanted her to stay.  It was Maya who volunteered, Maya who made the choice, the leap. 

She makes the same leap now, swallowing hard.  “Honey, I’m in this with you,” she promises steadily.  “Good or bad.”

Riley nods once, her gaze dropping and staying on the ground.  Maya’d know that look anywhere—it’s the look she always has before she says something that makes every part of Maya want to curl around her, keep her safe.  She really shouldn’t be surprised, then, when Riley murmurs, “In case something happens to me, I need to know that you’ll be okay." 

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Maya assures her.  “If it doesn’t work, I’ll turn you again and we’ll start over.”

“No,” Riley says gently, firmly.  “By the time you’d know if something is wrong with me and not with you, you should have already turned back.  I need to know that you’ll leave things as they are.  Don’t make a deal with the devil just to bring me back.”

“ _Riley_.”

“ _Maya_.”

She stares at her for a long time—Riley looks up from the floor to stare back, equally stubborn, equally concerned and it’s around minute five that Maya realizes that they could go on like this for an eternity, really.

It’s around that time that she also realizes that she could never say no to Riley, not really. 

“You do know what you’re asking of me, right?” Maya grumbles, half-heartedly glaring up at Riley.

Riley nods.  “Maya,” she whispers.  “Maya, I’m tired.”

 _Fuck_.  “Okay,” Maya gives in, gives up, feeling the betrayal edge deep into her bones, her blood.  “Alright, I promise.”

They stay on the floor for a few moments longer, silent and unsatisfied—Maya worries that this may be the last night of their too long lives; worries about the practicality of suddenly being human again, this time in a world that doesn’t remember them, in a time when all they really have are one another.  Even right after the turn, even when it felt that way, they still had their families, their friends, all far too understanding, all unconditional in their love. 

She remembers each of their deaths—they made it a point to travel to each bedside whether they were together at the time or not; there were quite a few trips made separately, the loss often what drew them back together.  That’s how much of the 70s and 80s were spent; breaking up in some dramatic way like crying in the middle of a Parisian cafe and then fleeing to different countries, or maybe walking out of some hotel room in Prague, or maybe in another acrimonious divorce in California (they’ve been married so many times that Maya’s lost count; one time she faked her death a decade early rather than divorce again—at least then she wouldn’t be subject to Riley’s angry, burning gaze).  But then they’d get a call, or Riley would get a call, or Maya would get a call, and there’d be a concise text, a flurry of activity on their credit card statements that would be the only evidence they ever went home.

They got back together for the last time after Auggie—Maya sometimes wonders about that.  Wonders whether it was just because she was the last one left.  The only tie to the life Riley loved. 

She looks up now and is reassured by the unrelenting, unconditional love she finds in Riley’s eyes.  Riley loved her life, she knows, but she loves Maya too, loves Maya now.  Wants to live a new life with her.

They weren’t ready for eternity, then, she thinks.  Too young and scared and suddenly faced with the reality of eternal life—Maya likes to think that if they’d taken some time at the beginning, done vampire couple’s counseling or something that they’d have made it, wouldn’t have started that vicious cycle, wouldn’t be crumpled in a heap on her spare room’s floor right now, contemplating their impending mortality now.  That they’d have either come to peace with their new lives or come to this decision without the heartache, the grief.

But this is the hand they were dealt, Maya supposes.  Best not to dwell on it.

 

  **...**

 

They spend their last day walking around the parts of the city that they still recognize.  Christopher Park is still there, the statues still standing.  Riley trails her fingers along the cold metal, her other hand firmly in Maya’s.  “Do you remember our first kiss?” she asks suddenly, half turned away.

Maya remembers it too well, probably—remembers the fumbling attempts and then the easy rhythm of it, remembers the loaded silence that followed.  Remembers running away, too frightened by her own feelings to think of Riley’s for once.  But she also remembers the warmth in her chest, the shiver that ran through her at Riley’s touch.  Remembers the giddiness that sprang forth, unbidden and unexpected.

Instead of saying all this, she pulls Riley in for what has to be the best recreation in history, sans the fumbling and panicked fleeing.

Next comes their old school; it’s still Abigail Adams, but the building is newer, bigger, flashier.  “It’s a charter, now,” Maya informs Riley as she jimmies the lock on the back entrance.  School’s out on fall break, the building dark and cavernous.

Nothing’s the same as they remember, Maya knows as much.  She spent a few years as an art teacher here, about a decade ago, did it for nostalgia’s sake, but found it far too painful to stay on any longer.  That time, however, let her get an inherent grasp of the building’s layout, and it’s easy to bring Riley to where they used to eat lunch, to the window seat they finally claimed in senior year.  To the classroom that Riley’s father taught out of, day in and day out. 

That room, at least, is familiar.

Riley breaks away from Maya then, walking up to the front of the classroom stiffly, drumming her fingers on the smooth surface of the modern desk, all white plastic and rounded edges.  The chalkboard is no more, but there’s a white board, and it’s easy to fill in Cory Matthews and the lesson of the week.  Easy to imagine Riley in the front row, young and unfinished, Maya next to her, Farkle and Lucas and Zay and Smackle, Darby and Sarah and Yoshi and Back-of-the-class Brenda. 

Maya knows Riley must see it too, must see them all, must hear her father’s voice again.  Her brow furrows, head tilting to one side as she contemplates the empty desks.  Maya can see the shine of tears in her eyes, even from where she stands across the room.  “Hey,” she calls softly, watching as Riley’s attention snaps back to her, back to the present.  “We should go.”

“Yeah,” Riley responds.  “Yeah, we should.”

 

  **...**

 

They end up back at Riley’s childhood home.  She’d bought the building soon after Auggie had moved out to Long Island with his family, had been willing it to another version of herself for the past century and a half.  Riley must have been having someone look after it, because when Maya’s expecting a crumbling edifice of lives long past, she finds a carefully maintained building looking the same as when she last saw it. 

“It looks just the same,” Maya says in awe, coming to a halt at the front steps. 

Beside her, Riley preens a little, telling her, “I come back a couple times a year and clean it up.” 

“You do this yourself?”

“I don’t—there aren’t others that I trust with it." 

And Maya understands that, at least, though the knowledge that Riley’s been back in the city before and never checked in on her stings a little.  She pushes the thought to the back of her mind; it doesn’t serve them to dwell on things they’ve already done.  Things they can’t change.

The Matthews’ apartment is empty, same as every other apartment in the building—Auggie had gotten a unit across the hall when he and Ava first started their family, and he had been there, graying and older than Maya or Riley had ever been, to help clear out the old apartment after Topanga died.

The kitchen counters and cabinets are still that faded teal, the doorway out of the kitchen still showing signs of Cory’s careful measurements, names and dates etched beside each tiny line.  Maya hasn’t been back since they cleared the apartment.  She’s standing in the middle of the living room, right where the couch had once been, and filling in the life, the activity when Riley calls to her from where she stands, waiting, in the hall.  “Bay window,” Riley says, the setting sun painting her holy, gold.  “Bay window right now.”

And while Riley has the head start and longer legs, Maya’s been at this longer, hasn’t been shoving her instincts and skills down in order to maintain some semblance of humanity.  She beats the other girl to the window, to Riley’s old room and finds herself lost, again.

They fell in love in this room—met and loved and grew and laughed and loved and learned and cried and fought and loved and loved and _loved_.  Everything feels too much, too bright.  All their years come crashing down on Maya now, leaving her wrecked and smashed open, staring as Riley brushes past her and takes her seat.  She’s got a similar look to her, all vulnerable and wretched and waiting.  For what, Maya’s not sure.  Maybe something to make this all feel right again.

When Riley gestures for her, Maya joins her at the window without thinking, muscle memory allowing them to slot against one another like puzzle pieces, lined up shoulder to hip, knees bumping. 

“It won’t be the same, will it?” Riley asks abruptly, her voice small and quiet in the emptiness of what used to be her room.  Her hand finds Maya’s in the rosy light of dusk, gripping it tight enough that Maya thinks it would hurt.

For a moment, she doesn’t know how to answer.  Doesn’t know how to make this feel okay, not with the sun setting, not with the end of all things suddenly upon them.  So—“I don’t know,” Maya answers honestly.  “Probably not.”

Riley nods, her hold on Maya’s hand never loosening.  “I think—,” she starts, biting off her words as the sun sets completely, leaving the room, and them, in the cool blues of evening. 

“You think?” Maya prompts. 

“I think I’d like to move back here.”  Riley sweeps her gaze around the room, sizes it up.  “I’d like for you to come with me, if you want." 

Maya takes the moment that Riley offers with her silence to think about it, think about giving up the place she’s called home for centuries, the light soaked studio and darkened bedroom, the big windows lining her living room, letting just enough of the world in for Maya to still feel a part of it.  Thinks about leaving behind the memory of Riley walking out.  Thinks about abandoning all the tears she cried to empty rooms, silent halls.

And she thinks about coming back to this, the rusted fire escape and the faded paint, the scuffed hardwood and ivy covered stone.  The memories of everything they were and could have been.  The memories of all their friends and family that have gone before. 

“I think I’d like that, too,” Maya murmurs, pulling her knees to her chest and shifting more of her weight to lean against Riley. 

The room grows dark, but it doesn’t feel like an ending, for once.

 

 **...**  

 

A little before midnight, they’re outside the wormhole again; Maya reaches for Riley this time, the crucifix around her neck weighing heavily as they step through the first door.  The opium den is the same, stinking of horrible, unending pain and desperation, the brothel with its succubi as Maya remembers it.

When they reach the Old One’s door, Maya tugs on Riley’s hand to stop her.  “Just a second.”

Riley turns; the light hits her in a way that leaves Maya dumbstruck, awestruck.  Aching, missing, wanting.  She wishes it were easy, wishes that they could’ve just died young, together, none of this _maybe it’ll work_ shit.  But Riley’s looking at her expectantly, eyes soft and head tilted just slightly to one side.  Maya doesn’t have a speech, not really, finds it hard to string words together right now.  Eventually, she manages.

“I just want you to know,” she whispers, pulling Riley in close and resting her head on her shoulder.  “I need you to know that I love you.  More than anything.” 

Maya wasn’t sure if it was possible, but Riley goes even softer at her words, relaxing against her.  “Peaches,” Riley breathes in response, and the name alone is enough for Maya to know.  “Maya, I love you too.  I love you so, _so_ much.  No matter what.”

They don’t say anything after that, content to hold each other for a few moments more.  And then the church bells are ringing in the distance, welcoming the witching hour, and Riley pulls away, pulls Maya through the door.

 

  **...**

 

_June 23 rd, 2020_

When Maya wakes, it’s dark.  She’s alone.  That, rather than the hunger, is what panics her. 

“Riley?” she calls, then shrieks, “ _Riley_!”

Her eyes finally adjust to the darkness around her.  The vampire from the night before is beside her, but not looking at her.  Maya follows her line of vision to see Riley, her girl, her best friend is on the ground, hunched over what, terrifyingly, looks like a person.  An unmoving person.

She’s feeding, Maya realizes, and the weight of what she’s done to them hits her then, makes her retch.  The noise draws attention, the vampire turning on her first, but it’s Riley that Maya’s watching, Riley’s red eyes that are what scares her.

The stench of blood finds her at that moment and then her hunger is no longer ignorable.  And she moves fast, so much faster than she should, than she ever has, and then Riley’s offering up the other wrist and Maya feels something sharp against her bottom lip and, instinctively, she runs her tongue over it. 

Her blood burns bitter.  She chases the taste with something sweeter, and her fangs are still buried deep in the person’s wrist when the vampire comes to them, smiling that terrible smile.

“Hello, my children,” it rasps.  “Welcome.”

 

**...**

 

The words echo in the room now, the crone still smiling that terrible smile.  Riley doesn’t pull away from Maya, but she does step in front once more, and Maya’s heart swells at the sight, pushing up against her ribs.  In front of her, Riley says evenly, “I’ve brought two portions of everything.”  She squeezes Maya’s hand.  “We’ll serve as each other’s tethers.” 

The Old One scowls, or at least Maya thinks she does.  The lines on her face are so deep that Maya’s positive she could probably be making any expression she wanted and no one would really be able to tell.  “The deal,” she grumbles, “was for you.  I shan’t lose two.”

“You can and you will.”  Riley’s voice is like steel, as cold and as hard as Maya’s ever heard it.  If she were the Old One, she thinks she’d be cowering.  “I assume you’ll want double your price, so here.”  She throws a bag of dirt onto the table between them and wow, yeah, Riley wasn’t kidding about being prepared for Maya.

“Fine,” the Old One concedes.  “The price is correct.  Let us begin.”  She moves quickly, faster than she should by the looks of her, but Maya knows to never underestimate her.  “You’ll need to stop hiding, child,” she barks at Maya, who scowls at her.  When they lock eyes, the Old One’s face breaks into a gruesome smile.  “You forget I’ve seen your heart.” 

“Don’t talk to her,” Riley snaps. 

“I speak to her heart, child.  And to yours.  Do you know that she would have lived?” 

Maya goes cold, frozen.  Riley’s grip on her hand relaxes, slips.  “What?”  She twists, turns to look at Maya.  “Is that true?”

Before Maya can answer, can assure her that any life she’d have had after that night wouldn’t have been one she wanted, could have born, the Old One is speaking again, voice rasping and catching.  “Her wounds were not fatal, as yours were.  She refused to leave you, or to be left.  Bargained the years left for her, for you.  Look how you repay her,” the Old One hisses, sweeping her arm out to the items on the table.  “Pain.  Torture.  The burden of mortality.” 

And she can see it happening, can see Riley’s determination wavering, so Maya tightens her hold on Riley’s hand and tugs her back, so that they’re level, equal.  “I made this choice myself,” Maya bites out.  “And the decision I made then was the right one.  I’d make it again.”  She can feel Riley looking at her, but it’s true, has always been.  Maya’s made hard choices, but they’ve been worth it, and they were worth it through every screaming match and every divorce and every heartbreak.  They’re worth it now.  “Just start,” Maya demands.  “We haven’t got all night.”

The Old One works quickly enough, then, slamming down flasks in front of them.  “Drink,” she tells them.  “Then eat.”  She throws the monkshood down, returns to mixing the anointment.

Maya keeps her eyes on Riley through it all, even when they fill with tears, the monkshood burning her throat, bile rising.  The Old One unceremoniously shoves a couple of buckets towards them just before the retching sets in, Maya first, then Riley.

When it’s over, there’s not waiting, no recovery time.  The Old One’s shoving them into chairs, summoned from thin air.  “Do the children of my blood relinquish this gift, this might?”  She holds the mix in a pewter bowl in one hand, a small brush in the other.  “Do you revoke your right to the blood of my line?”

“We do,” Riley answers, Maya echoing her.

“Will you accept the anointment of mortals?”

“We will.”  Their voices are in sync now and the hum of magic falls over them, something ancient and unwieldy, causing the hairs on Maya’s arms to stand on end, static in the air.

The Old One’s in front of Maya in the space of a breath, painting some rune onto her forehead, but it feels off, inverted.  The affected area burns and Maya hisses in pain; Riley grabs her hand and holds it tight when the Old One rounds on her, painting the same design.  Riley winces, doesn’t make a sound.  That, at least, hasn’t changed.

“O Father Sun,” the Old One calls, voice strong and filling every bit of unoccupied space in the room.  “O Mother Moon.  My children’s journey is at its end; it is their time to return to you.”  The room buzzes, hums, crackles.  Maya feels it build, reach it’s boiling point.  “I spurn them, withdraw my blood.  Welcome them, Mother.  Protect them, Father.  They are not mine to keep.  They are your children once more.”

It’s through a fog that Maya sees the Old One slip the stake out from the sleeve of her cloak.  From underwater, the Old One watches Maya through narrowed eyes as she grabs Riley roughly by the neck, breaking the hold they had on one another.  _No_ , Maya wants to scream.  _Take me first._

She never could handle watching Riley in pain.  Her mouth opens to scream, redirect, but the blanket of silence if over the room again, dampening all sound and it’s like working through cotton in your mouth, all words garbled.

It’s like watching in slow motion—or maybe she is watching in slow motion.  The arc of the crone’s arm, the redbrown of the stake a contrast to Riley’s pallor.  The redblack of Riley’s blood, staining her shirt, slipping out of the corner of her mouth.  The Old One yanks the stake out of Riley and she falls and whatever magic on the room makes it difficult, but not impossible for Maya to fall too, reach for Riley.  Always reaching a moment too late.  Always failing her.

“Stand,” the Old One commands as Maya reaches Riley, already limp, already with eyes fluttering.  “Stand or this is all for naught.”

But Maya can’t stop looking at Riley, can’t stop herself from curling over her, protective, defensive.  She’s lost her twice, by now.  She can’t believe she’ll have to lose her a third time.  

The Old One grabs Maya by her hair, drags her back, Riley slipping off her lap and onto the floor, hand still outstretched towards Maya when she stills.

 _“NO!_ ” Maya shrieks, breaking through the barrier, the world around her in real time once more. 

The crone screams too, whatever power keeping Maya in place seeming to draw from her, leaving her shattered, but she’s not who Maya cares about, not who Maya watched die for the second fucking time.  She’s beside Riley in an instant, the pain from the anointment nothing more than a nuisance compared to the ache in her chest, the rage that’s building in her veins, the grief flooding her lungs. 

When she turns to the Old One, she’s calm.  Veneer plastered over roiling hatred.  “It was your magic that did this.  It’ll be you that brings her back.”

“Stupid child,” the hag hisses.  “She’s gone.  It didn’t work.”

“Then _make_ it work.” 

“She requires a sacrifice!  Blood sacrifice.”  The Old One, doubled over and hanging onto the table for support.  “I don’t have the strength.” 

Maya stills, centers.  Eyes the stake where it lay, half rolled under the table when the Old One dropped it.  “I do.”

 

  **...**

 

When the sun rises, Maya wakes.  She’s warm, she notices.  Surrounded by warmth, softness. 

She comes to her senses slowly, wondering idly if she’s dead, if it didn’t work.  But, no, it had to—vampires, she knows, go to some limbo when they’re staked or dismembered or burned.  No warm glow of sunrise, no feeling of peace.

She has both, and gentle hands combing through her hair.  Opening her eyes finally, Maya’s greeted with what may be the best thing she’s ever seen.  Riley Matthews, haloed by the rising sun, gazing down at her like it was Maya herself that called for it to rise.

“Hey,” Riley whispers.  “I want you to feel something.”  

Maya nods.  Taking her hand gently, Riley guides it to her chest, presses it flat.  There’s nothing—Maya’s not sure what to look for, really, but then it’s there, impatient and insistent.

_Thump thump.  Thump thump._

Maya startles at the beat against her palm, freezing for a moment before bursting into action.  She presses two fingers to Riley’s neck and, yep, a pulse.  Checks her wrists and finds the same.  “You’re—?” Maya can’t bring herself to finish the question, afraid that if she does, it’ll be wrong, she’ll be wrong, she’ll have done all this for nothing.

Riley grins wide, nods slowly.  And then she’s pulling Maya’s hand away, guiding it to Maya’s own chest.  And she doesn’t want to feel what’s not there, already knows her sacrifice; it’s because of this knowledge that she nearly jumps when she feels her own heartbeat upon contact.  “ _Shit_ ,” Maya breathes.

“I know,” Riley laughs.  “It—it actually worked.”  She laughs again, tipping her head back as if to soak in as much of the sun as she possibly can.

Maya doesn’t join in on this joy.  She scrambles up, ignoring Riley’s concerned protests behind her, and peers around the table separating the halves of the room.  The Old One’s shriveled husk is where Maya remembers it, sprawled on the floor, and Maya feels sick, doubles over and heaves. 

Riley comes up beside her, hand on her back, and Maya starts to say, “Riles, _don’t_ —,” but Riley’s kissing her cheek, her temple, forehead, wherever she can reach. 

“I know,” she whispers into the crook of Maya’s neck.  “It’s okay." 

It’s not, Maya knows.  She’s just killed a person, or something that used to be a person.  But Riley’s words and touches are sincere and Maya leans into them, into her. 

They’re human again.  Riley’s warm against her, her heartbeat so strong, so constant.  There’s no bite of fangs when they kiss, just the easy slide of Riley’s lips against her own.  And it’s not the same, could never be, but it’s something close and, sighing, breathing in Riley, Maya thinks it may be enough.

 

 

 


End file.
